Reasonable Doubt
by freeflow
Summary: An aftermath moment leads to questions and very few answers as a Tracy struggles to understand.


**Title:**** Reasonable Doubt**

**Author:**** freeflow**

**Rating:**** K **

**Disclaimer:**** I do not own nor claim to have invented the recognisable characters or settings used in this work; they are the property of Gerry Anderson and his estate. This is a work of fiction created for entertainment purposes only; no financial gain is being made. Any original characters are of my own design for the purposes of this story.**

Reasonable Doubt

It was unreasonable, he knew. Irrational, even. But still, no matter how he _knew_ that it would, that it should, if he was honest with himself, he didn't understand how it _did_.

The yoke felt the same.

He had studied it from every angle, with both hand and eye, but it still remained exactly the same as ever.

The grooves where his fingers slotted just so, steady and firm. Smoothed along the upper edge where digits had gripped in the heat of a moment, gentled on the relieved race home, grabbed for desperate reassurance on those long, heartbreaking returns.

When his hands shook with glee, grief or gratitude, the orange rubber held his powerful craft in check. When he twitched with unconscious corrections, reacting without thought, his 'bird soared in response to the commands sent by that one curve of metal.

He had not placed the handle there. If he had had his way, the cockpit would have been far more like a fighter plane in design. He had trained and acclimated to a certain layout, instincts honed to one way of flying.

Now, he would have it no other way. His 'bird, his controls, his little world, all dependable and certain and, and... _solid_.

Until today.

Until that moment, five hours and thirty seven minutes ago.

Until his 'bird had dipped mid-flight.

He knew - had always known - that their crafts were not invulnerable. No matter how much work and time Brains, his brothers and father spent on developing and improving their designs, they of all people recognised their own mortality; the unreliability of technology, the unpredictability of nature, ripples that could turn an everyday happenstance into utter chaos.

If he thought about it – and in the two hours he had been sitting there, he had thought about little else – it had happened before. More times than he could remember, in fact, both in this craft and in each of the planes he had flown in the past.

A slight change in the wind, catching a stray front over the Pacific Ocean, heavy rain or even, if he was feeling particularly carefree, dodging a stray sea-bird when nearing home. Small bumps or turbulence were commonplace in aeronautics; he had learned, as most pilots did, to anticipate the worst and counteract at a moment's notice.

Naturally, he was doubly wary when in close quarters with other craft, or stationary objects. His mind worked overtime, calculating distances and possibilities when operating near buildings or people, watching, always watching, to make certain that any faults could be seen ahead of occurrence and headed off before they could affect a rescue.

But sometimes, sometimes it was a little more extreme. Sometimes, it took more than a slight course adjustment, an extra boost from the jets. And sometimes, sometimes, he could do nothing but wait and watch until the moment played out.

He still did not know what it had been.

His hand had rested where it always did when sitting in this seat. Wrapped around the yoke, relaxed but steady, prepared for anything.

Then, a tug. A jerk and a lock as he dove forward, dragging with every muscle in forearm, then bicep, shoulder and chest.

And just as suddenly as it began, it was over.

The yoke released, swooped back to its natural position, righting his cockpit and the craft with an eerie abandon. Alarms barely had a chance to blare before they cut themselves off, seeming to wonder, as he himself did in those silent seconds in the aftermath, whether it had really happened at all.

For the first time in a hundred rescues, he had frozen.

He was still, idling. His 'bird hanging in the mid-afternoon sun like a sleek, glinting star, studded against cloudless blue.

Until the noise began. The frantic voices and questions, the beeping of his communicator as his brother in space picked up on the fluctuations and sudden halt, the clicking of the radio trying to talk to him, urging him to respond.

And he had.

Although he had no idea what it was that he had said, or if he had sounded even half as distracted and, and- _disturbed_ as he had felt. But the noises had stopped, dropping away one by one until all that was left behind was him, his 'bird and his breathing.

He couldn't remember the trip back to base - and whilst that would normally be the point which would terrify him the most, knowing how precise his control had to be just to land the huge craft safely, under his _home_, mere _metres_ from those that he loved most, it seemed inconsequential in comparison – and the briefing had been a blur of complaints, congratulations and stuttered acknowledgements.

But that moment, that one moment where so much could have happened, where so much could have gone wrong, _that_ moment he could recall with pinpoint accuracy. Where each of his brothers were, how close – _God, how close! – _they had been to his craft and how much danger their accident victims had been in. It was torture, a repeating cycle of images that he could not escape from.

And it made no sense. His mind had not drifted. He was always alert when in this seat, so much so that his brothers would often mock him for it. They left sachets of coffee on his pillow, hung wind chimes in the simulator. Joked that he was more likely to sleep with a dose of caffeine in his system, as it was only when absolutely wired, knee-deep in the action that he ever truly relaxed. Giggled that he needed to 'find his centre' in the cockpit before his blood pressure became an emergency of its own making. 'Zen and the Art of TB 1', Virgil had added, then sighed when Alan and Gordon had failed to catch the reference.

But he knew that they understood it, were glad of his vigilance. He was the co-ordinator for their rescues, making decisions and reacting before many people would have had time to consider their options. It was not possible that he had made a mistake.

Well, it was _possible_. No matter how much like a machine his siblings believed him to be at times, he was only as efficient as his flesh and blood body, his honed but ultimately fallible system, allowed him to be. He had made poor decisions in the past, although thankfully they were few and far between. Still, they remained, proof of his humanity.

Yet, if he could recall each second of that moment, each move that he had made, each grunt and grind of both his voice and his 'bird, in sequence, in _harmony_, then how was it that he was still sitting here, hashing it over in his mind?

He knew that he had calculated the wind speed correctly, that his own figures had matched that of his 'bird. He had checked and tinkered with TB1's controls over the weekend and everything had been in working order. Brains had agreed that they should look it over again, to avoid any repeats of today's mishap, but that did not fix the doubts that had already taken root. He had done everything right, had been alert and ready for anything and still, _still_, he could have lost everything. Everything, in the space of a moment.

Aye, there was the rub. He could hear John saying that as clearly as if he were there with him. But he also knew that his brother, whilst having a penchant for broody books and melodramatic scenes, also tended to sway towards the beliefs of the optimist. Although it had been argued by more than one of his family members that his stargazer brother spent too long with his head in the clouds - 'or above them, for most of the time!' according to Gordon - he was always the one with the most resounding of advice. Feet on the ground optimism, with a healthy splash of 'c'est la vie' attitude had made John the go-to man for many a heart to heart, and his brother found himself missing him. Even if he was only a communicator's click away.

He knew what would be said, anyway. Be thankful for small mercies, and glad for the reprieve. Know for next time, be more prepared. Forewarned is forearmed, and all that jazz. He knew, and was glad that he hadn't interrupted his brother's rest for clichés that he could spout himself.

He knew that that sounded petty. One moment he wanted the reassurance of a brother, the next, he was glad of the distance between them. He had seen this before, after missions during his Air Force days. The maudlin desperation, the vicious sniping, the unanswerable questions. Had gone through it, too, dragged back to normalcy by his brothers and time passing. By secret plans and covert operations which distracted and dazzled and promised a change for the better.

And they had done it. No matter the doubts of that moment, the lingering terror and the empty, sighing void where 'what ifs' swirled endlessly in on themselves, he knew that they had done good in this world. That they had saved those considered irretrievable, gone above and beyond the general expectation of everyday altruism.

If asked, he would have said without hesitation that yes, it was worth it. Every sleepless night, each injury and fear and aching disappointment, all the secret tears and dented walls. They were all worth it.

Of that much alone, he was certain.

But that moment still remained. That moment which he could not forget, could not understand.

It was not his reaction that scared him. He had frozen, yes, but only after fighting to rectify his 'bird. He had lapsed into silence, doubtless, but only until he had collected the words needed to placate his worried family. He had drifted through his return and debriefing, working on autopilot within his own mind, but he was trained well enough to do so without putting himself or others in danger. Of these things, he was sure.

Then, perhaps that was it. Surety was, after all, his cornerstone, his balance. But the stoic dependability that he was renowned for had not developed by itself - it was founded on a background of firm support and an unbending faith in the people and things which had shaped his life. And in that moment, of all the things in the world which scared him most of all, three had happened at once.

His 'bird had failed to respond to him.

His brothers were in danger.

He was no longer in control.

His world had tilted. He held on tight to the yoke, praying that the handle would respond, that his craft would right itself once more, that it would pull him back to a level keel.

The craft remained silent and steady, prepped and waiting for the next mission.

The only one wavering here was him.

And he didn't know why anymore.

'Scott? You in here?'

But, perhaps that was alright, sometimes.

'Scotty?'

Tightening his grasp on the orange rubber beneath his fingers, Scott Tracy let out the breath he seemed to have been holding for nearly six hours, and released his grip. A hand on his shoulder and solid reassurance melted through the last of the ice that had held him frozen in time. He let his head back drop onto the red leather behind him and chuffed out a stilted laugh.

'I wasn't, Virg, but I think I am now.'

He supposed it was just the risks of the job, those niggling thoughts that trap and keep part of a person clinging to the past. But he knew that he would wake up in the morning, or midway through the night, racing in from the pool or covered in engine oil, drop everything and anything in the hope of saving just one more person. Running those risks over and over again.

Perhaps he wasn't supposed to leave that moment behind. Perhaps, just perhaps, that moment was there to remind him that although everything felt the same every time they were called out - the controls in his cockpit, the squeak of the leather beneath him, the roar of the engines and the comforting voices of his brothers over the radio - no two rescues were the same.

Maybe each decision affected an outcome. Maybe he could have done something different. But, maybe his 'bird would have dropped like a stone, maybe his brothers would have been crushed by falling debris. Maybe, just maybe, everything had worked out exactly as it should have done, and that was just the way things were.

He had no answers. But then again, he wasn't sure that he would have known what to do with them if he had.

Everything could change in a moment. But, even as he thought it, he was turning to meet his brother's questioning gaze, moving forward, leaving those lessons for philosophers and ponderers like John.

For practical men like Scott Tracy, there was always room for reasonable doubt.

But only to a point.

He followed his brother from the cockpit, dimming the lights as he left.

Tomorrow, and the day after that, there would be new moments, both good and bad. And his brothers would drag him back into the world again, determined to forge ahead.

And there, he would lead them, doubts or not.

Of that, he was certain.


End file.
